


All I Dream Of Lately

by luninosity



Series: Like Sugar (Spell It Out) [9]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Competence Kink, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Topping, Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Role Reversal, Self-Defense, Sexual Harassment, Topping from the Bottom, check notes for specifics on what gets said to seb in the bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's good at defending their honor. It's possible Chris has never been more turned on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shanology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanology/gifts), [Feanor_in_leather_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/gifts).



> Title this time from Tegan & Sara's "Closer," which seemed to fit pretty well, lyrically speaking. :-)
> 
> This one's a gift for two lovely people whom I'm pretty sure I promised one of these installments, like, a year ago, or something. Belated, but here you go! Chapter two coming in at most a week, though ideally sooner.
> 
>  **Warnings just in case:** the first bit contains a prejudiced drunken Dom coming up to Seb and uttering insults, calling him a slut, suggesting that as a submissive he's only good for shutting up and having sex, insinuating that Chris can't satisfy him, and grabbing his arm - before Seb does something about it. Decisively.

_Sebastian_  
  
Chris is running late. Sebastian pokes at his martini glass. Watches layers wobble and cling and slide down: coffee liqueur and vanilla vodka and iced-chocolate sweetness. The bar’s playing casual classic rock, easy and unbothered. He doesn’t mind that; he likes Bon Jovi, mostly.  
  
He considers his notebook, closed now and also unbothered, deep cool navy-blue leather that caresses his fingertips like velvet. A luxury; Chris’d bought this one for him.  
  
He loves Chris Evans.   
  
He ends up smiling at the notebook. It smirks: it knows precisely how besotted he is. How improbable this whole life is, the way he’s fallen head over clumsy heels for his husband, the stupefying beautiful fact that Chris Evans had made love to him that morning and made coffee for him and brought it to him in bed.   
  
He touches his notebook again, lightly, with a fingertip.  
  
He could try to write more, to fill lines with music-notes and experimental phrases, but he’s been thinking about melodies and tunes all afternoon. His brain’s emptied out and fuzzy from exertion; he wants Chris to come meet him and kiss him and share drinks and dinner, laughing. Secure as a home.  
  
He’d actually arrived a bit early—he’d been writing in a Starbucks a couple blocks away, needing to get out of the apartment and wander the city. Chris had had a meeting, arranging an art exhibition, so they’d agreed to find each other at this bar, which is a new spot. Good reviews, good drinks—at least his martini has proved so—and an unpretentious space gradually filling up with bodies as the evening crowd trickles in. The bar-stool seems comfortable so far, and Sebastian’s idly watching the room. New York City. Treasure-trove of stories. Faces, clothing, shapes, packages, and buildings.  
  
The thin blonde woman in the pink coat, ordering a cosmopolitan, is a song all by herself. Bright and quick and nervous and sharp, hurried but with delicate lines. A magenta sort of song, he decides. She brings the drink back to the table where a round and pretty dark-haired girl in a submissive’s collar is smiling; when their hands touch the room sheds invisible weight, and they share sips from the same glass.  
  
Sebastian smiles to himself. Touches his own collar, quick and almost absentminded. Today’s version’s relatively new and more dramatic than previous purchases; they’re both getting used to him wearing one. Smoky grey, wide and supple, it fits like glove-leather, made for him. A single diamond dangles at the front, sitting precisely in the hollow of his throat. He’s unmistakably someone’s submissive, adorned and pampered and decorated. Anyone’ll see that at a glance.  
  
His wedding ring catches the bar’s low light and spins it into gilded tales. Chris wears the matching one.   
  
He takes a sip of his martini. Thinks about lives entwined, and futures, and a kind of radiant secret joy he’d never imagined.  
  
Chris is running late because the meeting’d run late and New York traffic is hell on Friday nights—Sebastian’d nearly asked _why not take the subway?_ but had remembered before pressing send on the text that his husband dislikes the subway, too crowded, too many people, too many anxiety-inducing factors beyond Chris’s control—and Chris has been sending him sad poop emojis along with updates. About ten minutes, probably.  
  
They’ve not been married _that_ long. He’s learning. They’re learning. He likes knowing that Chris Evans cries at Disney movies and possesses unnatural inhuman skill at miniature golf. He likes the way Chris rolls his eyes at Sebastian’s Starbucks addiction and then keeps adding money to his registered card anyway.  
  
He _loves_ Chris pouncing on him in the kitchen, kissing him breathless, and bending him over the counter on the spot. They’ve experimented a little more with the leash and command, at home. Sebastian’s mind absolutely shuts off when Chris snaps that slim line onto his collar. Blurry with rapture. White and gold as sunshine through clouds, floating.  
  
Things he’d never imagined, he thinks again, and takes another sip. Chocolate and coffee and vanilla richness swirl over his tongue.  
  
Letting his gaze travel across the room, he listens to Bon Jovi sing about being an outlaw. Being wanted, dead or alive.  
  
The door opens; a knot of large middle-aged men spills in, obviously having already begun the evening’s partying elsewhere and extensively. They’re almost certainly very traditional Dominants; they’re taking up space as if they own the world, asserting their right to conquer, and bellowing with laughter as one of them tells the old joke about the submissive and the dog.  
  
Sebastian’s heard it. It’s not really funny.  
  
They collect beers and slosh into a table in the back. Sebastian seriously considers leaving—the atmosphere’s gotten far less convivial—but Chris’ll arrive in five minutes and the men aren’t paying anyone else any attention.  
  
The bartender drops by to ask whether he wants another drink. Sullen eyes look at his collar sideways, as if wondering what a sub with an expensive piece of jewelry’s doing alone and unguarded. Sebastian stifles the urge to point out that he _is_ allowed to go out in public, he’s allowed to do whatever his particular Dominant permits, and also the superhero film playing on one of the side televisions has been scored by him, thank you.  
  
He sighs and declines the drink. Being sarcastic at silently judgmental bartenders would likely get him in trouble. Misbehaving. Insubordination from a submissive. There’s no technical legal rule about sarcasm, but he _can_ be cited for public indecency, being a nuisance, and a few other distressingly archaic laws to keep subs in line. And it’d reflect badly on Chris, raising speculation about ability to dominate a submissive.  
  
Those laws are changing, but slowly. Progress, especially in areas like divorce and personal property and the right to a career and an income. The more traditional camps aren’t happy about it.   
  
They’re even less happy about Sebastian himself: extremely _un_ traditional in many ways. Not least of those being the decades during which he’d managed to hide his orientation, avoid formal training, and never sign a contract. Some Dominants take this as a personal insult.  
  
The equal rights groups adore him, of course.  
  
The largest of the raucous group at the back table, a man who resembles every American football player of Sebastian’s college experience rolled into one disheveled business-suited package, looks over toward the bar. Possibly he wants more beer, possibly not, but his eyes land on Sebastian. They check out his collar, and then travel down, and back up.  
  
Sebastian resists the urge to touch his collar again for reassurance. Turns further away, into the bar. Checks his phone. The latest text from Chris says _two minutes, be right there, love you_.  
  
He sends back a heart plus _we’ll probably want to head out, not sure this is our kind of place, tell you when you get here_.  
  
More loud drunken laughter happens from the Dominant table. He tries to ignore it. One of them says something mildly insulting about his movie; he’s not sure if they’ve recognized him—composers aren’t exactly famous, at least not by sight, but he’s done a lot of behind-the-scenes film-related interviews and equal-rights-related profiles—or if they’re just expressing beer-influenced opinions.   
  
The linebacker in the expensive rumpled suit’s looking at him again, maybe checking to see if he’s heard. Sebastian pointedly glances down at his notebook. Scribbles a line of nothing: preoccupied, plainly busy, go away.  
  
No such luck. A broad-shouldered bulk comes over and lounges on the bar-stool beside his. “Hey, I know you.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sebastian tries politely, “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”  
  
“Nope.” With a grin, rather the way a shark might look while stalking wounded human prey. “Sebastian Stan. You’re famous.”  
  
“If you’re congratulating me on the Academy Award nomination, you can send a note to my official mailing address.”  
  
“Not what I had in mind.” The shark leans in. He smells of beer and peanuts and stale man. Sebastian wants to lean away. “I’ve seen you. At a…let’s say a club. Being _polite_. Three years ago, right?”  
  
Oh no. Oh no no no. Fuck no. He can feel his fingers curl in. Nails biting into palm. “As far as I recall I never slept with a goat’s testicle, so no.”  
  
“Didn’t say I fucked you, sub. As if I would.” One hand picks up Sebastian’s martini. Finishes it off: casual, proprietary, cruel. “A sub like that, unclaimed, running wild, bein’ the little uncontrolled whore you are…wouldn’t touch you with a toy on a three-foot pole. But I saw you. That was the night you let three Doms string you up and whip you and then fuck you all at once, right? You were begging for it.”  
  
He’d been scared—terrified, really, of his own desires and urges. He’d needed to get out of his head, to be pushed, to be taken under. He had begged. He remembers that.  
  
Those underground clubs are mildly illegal but tolerated, given money paid by the right people to the right people. Places where anyone—Dom or sub, collared or not—can go to indulge. To explore those urges. When skin shivers and sings and pleads for a lash—or to inflict one. To kneel—or to put a hand on a sub’s hair and shove him or her down. Sebastian Stan, hiding from the knowledge of his own status, knowing that to publicly declare himself would mean the end of his career and the independent life he’d built, had indeed begged, and desperately, for a night’s reprieve.  
  
His last club night had been the night he’d been caught, of course. Turned in for money by one of the employees. Brilliant young composer, unregistered submissive, flouter of public laws.  
  
That’d led to his very public outing, and the scandal, and his hasty marriage to Chris Evans. Of all the wondrously strange unforeseen pieces of the universe, that might be the strangest and most wonderful.  
  
Chris knows in general terms about his past. Chris doesn’t know every sordid detail.  
  
He says evenly, “Then why are you within three feet of me now?”  
  
“God, you got a mouth on you.” The man rakes eyes over him: up and down, insolent, assessing. Sebastian’s skin crawls. “So pretty. Such a goddamn waste. Should show you what that mouth’s good for, sub.”  
  
Sebastian reminds himself to breathe. Chris isn’t here. Chris is coming, but _not_ here yet; he’s on his own. The bartender won’t save him, avoiding his eyes, doggedly scrubbing a glass; the other patrons gaze with mingled curiosity and pity and even some excitement in spots, egging the drunken Dominant on.  
  
His collar’s a thick solid support. A reminder at his throat: he belongs to Chris now. Chris wanted him. Chris _wants_ him. The diamond trembles when he exhales.  
  
“And then you went and got married,” the man marvels, inebriated and lurching and large. “To some fucking artist, some nobody, no Dom who’s ever been around the scene—he lets you out on your own, too, lets you come in here alone—is that why you married him? You didn’t want a real Dom?”  
  
Sebastian’s hands tense. Shoulders. Spine. Everything.   
  
“Bet he can’t even satisfy you,” that drunken voice slurs. “Not with what I saw. Bet that’s why you’re out here alone, just lookin’ for a proper Dom, someone to fuck you like the little slut you are, show you your place, sub—”  
  
The word twists in his mouth, ugly. Chris uses it sometimes as an endearment: mine, my sub, so sweet for me. Acceptance of their roles, of the role Sebastian’s learning to openly embrace at his Dominant’s side.  
  
This is wrong. A perversion. Blasphemy. He says, keeping his voice calm, “I belong to Chris, and you’re insulting both of us.”  
  
“Nothin’ that ain’t true about you,” the man retorts, and snaps a hand out quick as vicious lightning, grabbing Sebastian’s wrist, “and no way to insult a Dom who ain’t a Dom, either—”  
  
“Please don’t touch me,” Sebastian manages around a gasp. The grip _hurts_. Pressing in toward bone. “I’m Chris’s property now—” Neither of them likes that phrasing, but it’s useful in certain situations, a deterrent. “—and this is fucking illegal, and I _am warning you_.”   
  
“Or what?” A leer, so close he can feel smothering breath. “You gonna fight back, sub? Or are you gonna take it, take what he can’t give you with his _artist’s_ hands—”  
  
Sebastian twists his wrist, pushes against the weak point in the grip, and moves.  
  
The movement ends with himself free and pinning a whimpering Dominant’s arm against the bar. In an exquisitely painful position. One that’ll end in one of two ways: Sebastian lets go or something important snaps.  
  
The bartender drops the glass. It shatters.  
  
“Let’s try this again,” Sebastian suggests. He’s mentally thanking every friend he’s ever made on a superhero film set, specifically the stunt crew and fight choreographers who’ve never minded a curious composer wandering around and asking questions and jumping into training for fun. “Apologize.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ you—”  
  
“Not to me. To Chris.”  
  
Someone clears her throat from a side table. A step scuffs over the bar’s floor. Catching his attention.  
  
Chris’s voice ventures, tentative as the soul of disbelief, “…Sebastian?”  


  
_Chris_  
  
Chris has been standing just inside the doorway for several seconds now. He’d arrived in time to hear vile drunken insults about Sebastian’s mouth, about Sebastian’s past. He’d felt himself swell up with protective fury, taking a step forward, towering with righteous rage, barely registering comments made about himself. Nobody gets to talk to Seb like that—nobody gets to put a _hand_ on Sebastian—  
  
And Sebastian had moved like a panther, like an unpracticed but angry cheetah, long-limbed and awkwardly graceful, a flash of swiftness that’s ended in this tableau. Sebastian’s collared and lovely and wearing Chris’s diamond at his throat and Chris’s ring on his finger, and he’s unquestionably in charge of this bar. Strongest person here.  
  
Some distant traditionally-raised piece of Chris’s head yelps in shock at his submissive’s assertiveness. The rest of him is thrilled to the core, and a _lot_ turned on. He’s not sure whether to step in and punch the horrible other Dom himself, or just beg his husband to come home and toss him onto the bed with that deliciously fluid display of strength.  
  
Sebastian defended his honor. Is demanding now that the horrible Dom apologize to _Chris_.  
  
Chris’s head and heart are spinning with astonishment and lust, and he can’t tell which is winning. Maybe both.  
  
He manages to say Sebastian’s name, half delighted, half stunned.  
  
Sebastian looks up. And then those familiar water-opal eyes get _huge_. “Chris—I—he was—I didn’t mean—” His captive squirms; Sebastian’s fingers tighten on his arm. “All right, I did mean to, _you_ stay put—but, Chris…”  
  
“I know. It’s okay, Seb, you’re fine, we got this.” He can breathe again, and is free to move; his brain’s trying to run in a dozen different directions, but the primary internal voice simply says: take care of him, your submissive, the man you love. “You’re allowed to defend yourself and my property, and _he’s_ not allowed _to fucking touch you_. You’re good.”   
  
His last words come out a growl. Possessive, infuriated, needing to pull Sebastian close and never let go. Sebastian could be in a hell of a lot of trouble for physically assaulting a Dom, but won’t be, because he’s legally protected by that defense clause. Also by Chris, who will fight the whole damn bar into agreement if he has to.  
  
He puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Seb’s trembling slightly now, probably the realization sinking in. “Also, that was fucking _awesome_.”  
  
Sebastian smiles weakly. “Love you.”  
  
“Love you. So damn much.”  
  
“Still _here_ ,” says the Dominant trapped by Sebastian’s grip, plaintively.  
  
Chris looks at him. Lets the smile drop. Lets every ounce of anger show. He’s a Dom and someone else put a hand on his sub—his sweet Sebastian, who’s been through so much and is so amazing and deserves none of this—and everyone in the bar’s suddenly very aware of his height and muscles and the hints of tattoo-ink showing at biceps and collar.   
  
“He asked you to apologize,” Chris says. Mildly.  
  
“He’s nothing but a—”  
  
“If you want to leave with both balls, you’re not gonna finish that sentence.”  
  
“Apologize to Chris,” Sebastian requests, and puts a bit more pressure into the grip. Chris gets briefly distracted by this display of muscle.  
  
“Um,” the man says, voice gone small and pained. “ ’ry.”  
  
“For what, precisely?”  
  
“For…ow, fuck…sorry for saying shit about your Dom. Jesus, that hurts—”  
  
“Now apologize to Seb,” Chris says, and they trade grins over the ensuing whimper.  
  
“Okay, fuck, sorry.” The man glares at them both. “I’ll take it back. Whatever. Just don’t break my arm, come on, man, please.”  
  
Chris leans in. “You might want to remember this moment. What happens when you touch someone’s sub without permission. When you _insult_ another human being. And be glad I’m not reporting you for misconduct. _This_ time.” He’d been inclined to, but he’d seen the flicker in Sebastian’s eyes: his husband’s the one who needs their marriage to be socially acceptable, and who has the most to lose from a scandal even when technically in the right. “Seb, anything else? Still want to break his arm? Fine by me.”  
  
Sebastian puts his head on one side. Considers the idea, holding the man down with no apparent effort. Bon Jovi gives way to Journey, in the musical background. “Might get messy. But he’s paying for my drink, at least.”  
  
“I think he’s paying for _everyone’s_ drinks.” Off to the side, a few people applaud. The pretty dark-haired girl in the submissive’s collar, holding her Domme’s hand, is beaming and clapping; Chris thinks he might like her. A couple of people’re taking pictures, video, snapshots of the moment. They’ll be up on social media within seconds. Something else to deal with, but not right now. “Okay, then. Sebastian?”  
  
Sebastian, catching the tone, lets go instantly. Steps closer and leans into Chris’s touch. Chris loops a finger around the diamond on his collar and tugs; there’s a reason it dangles, a small teardrop of a leash. Sebastian murmurs, “Yes, sir?” while gazing at him, public and trusting, strength that’s just been threatening flesh and bone now yielding to command.  
  
Chris kisses him hard and deep and claiming: in front of everyone, a banner raised, an anthem. Sebastian’s his other half, and Sebastian makes soft sweet sounds of surrender, melting into possession. It’s a display and an assertion, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true, and when Seb’s legs seem to be wobbly Chris pins him against the bar and kisses him more, teeth grazing over his throat above the collar. Sebastian’s panting and dazed by the time he’s finished, thoroughly cherished and not thinking about any pictures appearing on the internet.  
  
“Come on,” Chris says, and scoops up Sebastian’s notebook and pen and leads his submissive out to the street, where he grabs the first available taxi. City lights twinkle at them. This is their home, and so neon and glitter cheer them on.  
  
The taxi’s one of the luxury models, with floor pads and restraints for submissives, for the more traditionally-minded. Sebastian hasn’t said anything since the bar, but slides down and sits at Chris’s feet, not looking up. His head’s bent, and stray strands of shadow-brown hair attach themselves to Chris’s knee; after a second he leans against the closest leg.  
  
“Seb,” Chris says, as gently as he can, and reaches out: fingers taking Sebastian’s chin, nudging it up. “Hey, you okay?”  
  
“Not really.” Sebastian’s smiling, though, a wry quirk of that expressive mouth. “I was thinking—you know we’ll make the news again—”  
  
“I know. I don’t care.” He rubs his thumb over his submissive’s cheek. “You still want to go out for dinner, or do you want to go home?”  
  
“Home, I think.” Sebastian shrugs without moving, a gesture of eyebrows and valiant good humor. “I’ve just threatened to break a Dominant’s arm in a bar. I believe that’s enough for one night, don’t you?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chris muses, “bet we could come up with somethin’ worse if we tried,” and gives the taxi-driver their address. The man employs a level of tact for which Chris will give him an immense tip, and merely nods. “Also, you know how _hot_ that was? I mean, wow. I mean, I never knew you could do that.” Just thinking about it is making his pants get tighter. Such fierce strength, the rippling muscles of Sebastian’s arms—oh, Sebastian’s arms pinning him down, Sebastian’s strength pressed up against him, atop him, _inside_ him—  
  
“I wasn’t sure it would work,” Sebastian admits. He’s looking happier, or at least less uncomfortable. “I’ve picked a few things up from stunt people on set, and I do go to the gym, but it’s not as if I run around practicing…”  
  
“You were like a _hero_ ,” Chris says. His submissive’s blushing; Chris pets his hair as he sits on the cab’s floor, and squirms in his own seat. His body really, really wants to have sex with a hero. “Seriously. Comic-book superpowers. Defending the world.”  
  
“My world,” Sebastian says, glancing up through long eyelashes. He’s brilliant. Chris adores him. “You. Us.”  
  
“God, I love you,” Chris says. “Let’s go home. I can show you how much. You can show me those things you’ve picked up. All the things.”  
  
And Sebastian tips his head into the petting, and answers, “Yes, Chris.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's like a first time all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a couple extra days! Life got...unexpectedly hectic. (Good reasons, but ones that took up time!)
> 
> Notes, Not Really Warnings: contains explicit sex, topping from the bottom, Chris wanting to get fucked but giving the orders, and mentions of some kinky things they've tried in the past, mostly bondage and dildos and such.

_Sebastian_  
  
By the time they reach home, up the elevator and into the apartment with the classic lines and huge swooping windows, he’s shivering: torn like tissue by the teeth of too many emotions. Chris gazes at him with concern, and takes his coat, big hands stripping away protective layers, but says nothing in words.  
  
Too many emotions. So many. Horror at what he’s just done, an act that could land him in jail if the defense argument didn’t fly. Pride at what he’s just done: he can defend himself and Chris if necessary, and he will. Reaction from being assaulted, that’s in there too, but so’s a quivery startled sort of feeling, a blush and a curl of pleasant fire in his stomach. Chris had looked at him with pure desire.   
  
Chris watched him confront the situation, and Chris wants him.  
  
Sebastian knows his Dominant, and that _had_ been want, scorching hot and desert-sun brilliant. Undeniable despite the worry: when Chris touches him, rubs a thumb over the back of his neck, nuzzles at his cheek, deep-seated care mingles with absolute lust.  
  
Their apartment’s quiet. No music playing; only books and two-story classic New York space, historic and renovated. His slow-cooker peeks over curiously from the kitchen; he’d been thinking about stews and soups and savory meals for autumn-bronze nights. He likes being able to feed his husband.  
  
More shy thrills of pride. Glowing.  
  
Chris asks softly, “Are you hurt?” and takes his hand, studies his wrist, scowls at finger-marks. “Did he hurt you?”  
  
“No worse than I’ve done to myself, battling with a chair.” He puts his hand atop Chris’s. Warmth tingles: spreading from that spot. Each breath feels somehow new. “I’m fine.” Words are small. Light. Expanding horizontal ripples, when the pond’s deep and poised beneath. “We’ll be on the internet soon. If not already.”  
  
“I don’t care.” Chris moves fingers under his, over his forearm. Skin prickles with awareness; Chris must feel it too, Sebastian thinks dizzily, this imminent eruption of giddy adrenaline and triumph, exhilaration and amazement. Monsters might wait beyond this moment. They can face those battles together.  
  
Chris goes on, “I want you, I said…”  
  
“You didn’t actually.” He’s a brat, but he’s teasing; the living room hums with emotion, charged as lightning before release. “You _love_ me, you said, sir.”  
  
“I do,” Chris rumbles, satisfactorily capturing his hand, yanking him closer, “even when you’re being sarcastic at me. Maybe especially when you’re being sarcastic at me. Got an idea, sub.”  
  
They both pause, then. A wince skips across Chris’s face like a thrown rock of memory, a bruise on the surface of a lake. “If you—”  
  
“No,” Sebastian says peacefully, “I still like it,” and sees his husband smile.   
  
“Okay. In that case…you know how fuckin’ spectacular you are…and you, um, you know how much you like it—we both like it—when I, um, that time I got on my knees for you…”  
  
“We don’t _talk_ about it,” Sebastian protests, half blushing, laughing, remembering how incredibly much they’d both liked it. Chris sinking to knees before him, devout and worshipping. Chris taking Sebastian’s cock into that unpracticed but eager Dominant mouth, sucking and licking and exploring, while one of Sebastian’s hands drifted down to tangle in short dark hair.  
  
Dominants aren’t supposed to abase themselves. Aren’t supposed to open up plush mouths and be penetrated. Certainly aren’t supposed to kneel and devote themselves entirely to drinking every drop of pleasure from their submissive’s body, simply out of love.  
  
Sebastian and Chris haven’t precisely done anything the way traditional pairs’re supposed to. Sebastian hadn’t quite expected his own reticence on the subject; he’s _not_ shy, in fact he’s utterly in favor of innuendo all day long, but this is the kind of irregular that’ll get their marriage investigated if anyone hears a whisper. But Chris Evans has tempted him into so many roles he’d never known he could play; he can’t resist, and doesn’t want to.  
  
Chris has given him this. An act only offered to one other person, once before; an act Chris reserves for someone he loves, someone he trusts enough with this secret, someone he wants to pleasure. Sebastian’s honored.  
  
Besides, Chris’s mouth—while still learning—feels _excellent_ wrapped around his cock.  
  
He says, giving in readily for all those reasons, “Did you—did you want to try that again? I could take off clothes, we could do—that—here on the couch, even, or I could get into bed—”  
  
“Close, but not quite.” Chris wraps big strong arms around him, cradling him. They’re nearly the same height really—about an inch of difference—but Sebastian loves being touched and held and kept safe. “Was kinda thinking…you could take _me_ to bed. Be on top.”  
  
What, Sebastian thinks. The words don’t quite process. Not making sense in that order. Not to him or his slow-cooker or the bookshelves. “What?”  
  
“I want you to fuck me, sub.” Chris taps his nose. “You look like I’m not speaking English. Or like you’re not.”  
  
“I…momentarily forgot every language I know. You want…me…to…be on top. Of you. Inside you.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“No, sorry, still not getting it. Didn’t I tell you once to be clearer?”  
  
“On our wedding night, yeah.” Chris grins, picking up on the teasing. Then the grin turns purposeful. Darker. Seductive. “Didn’t you ever play around with the idea? Never thought about it?”  
  
“No!” Even as he protests, a hint of shameful arousal burns along his spine. Maybe, yes. Once or twice. Wondering. In the abstract.  
  
Chris knows him too well. “None of those nights that you went out, those clubs—” He pauses, but Sebastian doesn’t flinch, so he goes on, “None of those Doms ever wanted to…y’know, use you? Tie you up and play with your pretty cock, baby, maybe ride you a little, turn you into a toy for them? You never did any of that?”  
  
“Oh fuck,” Sebastian says weakly. “Chris, can I sit down?” Those interfering emotions again. Sheer awe at the words. Dazzled attempts to process the transgressive nature of his Dominant’s suggestions. _Definitely_ arousal. No longer a hint.  
  
Chris’s whole body changes, protective possessive internal instincts triggered. A whirlwind of motion happens. At the end of the hurricane Sebastian finds himself set tenderly on the sofa and being hovered over by an apprehensive husband. He’s holding a glass of water. He’s not sure when that occurred. “Chris?”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Chris mourns, muffled, not quite meeting his eyes.  
  
“For what?” Sebastian looks at his water. It looks back, equally mystified. “I didn’t say I was opposed…”  
  
“That’s not the kind of thing I should spring on you. On anyone. Fuck, I’m such a moron.” Chris is clutching his hand—the one not occupied with water—in both concerned Boston-boy puppy-paws. “I didn’t mean—I know you probably don’t even want to think about—you need us to be respectable and you’re trying to forget all that, you told me it was never what you—forget I said anything, no reminders, okay?”  
  
Sebastian blinks. Drowns bewilderment in a sip of water. Chris sounds so earnest. So devoted. Every ounce of that generous heart laid open at his feet: anything that’ll make Sebastian feel better.   
  
He honestly hadn’t been thinking of his illicit club history. He hasn’t done anything he can’t tell Chris about. He hasn’t told Chris every single detail yet, no, but that’s simply because the topic hasn’t come up, not because he’s hiding anything.   
  
Chris’s fingers are warm and strong and worried. Chris’s eyes are warm and worried too, searching his.  
  
He’s aware that he’s made a decision.  
  
He sets the water on the coffee-table. Mentally thanks it for the support; hopes it’s heard. “I never did anything like that, no. I knew it happened—you didn’t shock me as much as you think, it’s only that I never expected _you_ to say it—and I saw some of it. People use submissives in every conceivable way, Chris. Especially in underground unregulated spaces. I even watched a few Dominants give up their roles and play as subs for a night. If they needed an outlet. If they…didn’t want what society thought they should want.” He’d seen the anguish, the ecstasy, the divine gratitude on certain faces.   
  
“Then…you’re okay?” Chris reaches out, touches the butterfly-weight of the collar over his throat. “Didn’t think, of the two of us, _you’d_ turn into the old-fashioned maiden aunt…”  
  
Sebastian lets out a huff of laughter, taps at the hand, catches apologetic fingers. They fit into his. “Buy me a fainting-couch, sir, if you’re planning to make me swoon with your scandalous talk. No, seriously, I only didn’t think you even knew about that sort of fantasy. And I’ve never done it. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try.” Chris Evans, while always extraordinarily sympathetic to the reform movement—and in private even already a supporter—had been brought up in an otherwise unremarkable classic home, with a proper Dominant Family Head, courtship traditions, and training in respective roles. Chris Evans has not been the subject of much media gossip or public drama. Not before Sebastian Stan.  
  
Chris Evans apparently has some impressively kinky ideas. Society would hardly approve.  
  
“What _have_ you done?” Chris bites a lip, lets it go. “I don’t mean details, or—or whatever you don’t want to tell me. You told me enough. Back when we talked about checklists. You needed to stop thinking and get out of your head, you said.”  
  
“Yes…remember that I only allowed myself one night, perhaps two, a year. And I didn’t know anything, because I never wanted to learn. What I was, what I needed…that admission…I just knew I was craving something. Submission. Kneeling. Being made to—being made over into whatever creature someone wanted for the night.” He looks down for a second, at the sympathetic puffball weave of their rug, then up. No details, Chris’d said. You told me enough. “I looked for partners who’d not ask questions. I didn’t look for people who would—who’d ask me to play a more active role. That wasn’t…”  
  
“That wasn’t what you were there for.” Chris nods, gaze steady, unwavering. “So you didn’t play around with anyone wanting you to top, or to do the fucking, even under orders…”  
  
“I could have. But if I only had one night, I wanted to surrender.” Annoyingly, his cheeks prickle hotly. It’s the weight of Chris’s regard; he’d thought they were past that. Evidently love and being loved doesn’t prevent embarrassment. “I wanted to—to not have to think. Just to be taken and—and fucked—and hurt a little, for the intensity, so I could be overwhelmed. So—back on topic, sir—I knew that was something people did. I could’ve been someone’s sex toy—well, I was, once or twice, but not in the role we’re talking about. I could’ve fucked a Dom if I’d wanted to, at least at one of those clubs. I never did, but you didn’t shock me.” He pokes Chris’s chest with a finger, defying discomfiture. “How on earth did _you_ come up with this idea? Wholesome adorable puppy that you are. I take it back, by the way, I am shocked.”  
  
“Um,” Chris says, blushing also, grabbing his finger, “I don’t know? Just…you like it when I…use my mouth on you…and you were so damn sexy back in the bar, all strong and ferocious—”  
  
“Ferocious?”  
  
“I don’t fuckin’ know! I thought about you on top of me. Inside me. Is that too kinky, or—”  
  
“ _You’re_ asking _me_ if that’s too kinky?”  
  
“Oh, _hell_ ,” Chris flails, and suddenly their eyes catch, and they’re both dissolving into giggles: the kind of helpless hysterical laughter that picks the world up and spins it around. A new configuration, Sebastian thinks, bottom to top, so kinky of it, that world; and then he’s laughing more, falling into a heap of Chris Evans on the couch.  
  
“Okay,” Chris says, getting breath back, “okay,” and they’re face to face, bodies pressed together; merriment fades and deepens and transmutes, singing like ensorcelled gold. The night shines around them; Sebastian’s heart pounds.  
  
Chris lifts a hand, cups his cheek, cradles his face. “So you’d try. You’d want to?”  
  
“I’ve never done it before.” Sebastian hesitates. Leans into the petting. “Would you…you’d tell me what to do?”  
  
“I can do that.” Chris half-smiles, adds, “Might like that anyway. Me directing you, telling you how to move, what to do to make me feel good…”  
  
“Not to come,” Sebastian offers tentatively, “until you want me to? So you can…you’re still using me, the way you want, for your pleasure…but I can be on top of you? Inside you? If you want to feel me, if you want me to—to do things to you?”  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Chris says, “sub,” and kisses him.  
  
  
_Chris_  
  
Chris has never done this, not exactly, before. His heart’s pounding. But he’s gotten Sebastian to smile, to laugh; he’s gotten Sebastian to agree. He can’t quite believe it.  
  
But oh does he want to. To believe it. To feel it.  
  
He rests a thumb-tip over his submissive’s mouth. Those plush lips part willingly, but stay silent, hushed. “Bed,” Chris says. He’s thinking fast. Plans.  
  
Sebastian nods and starts to get up—  
  
“No,” Chris says solicitously. “Hands and knees.”  
  
Sebastian looks briefly caught offguard, interrupted halfway between hopping off his lap and bringing the other foot to the floor. Then grins, being a magical fairytale creature who can read minds. “Yes, Chris. No leash?”  
  
“You don’t need it. Well-trained. You’ll follow me around like a good little kitten, won’t you? Sit when I tell you to. Beg.”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth drops open: not far, but enough for astonishment. “I’d—yes, of course, yes please, but I thought—”  
  
“That I’m going to let you fuck me?” He gets up too. Puts a hand in soft dark hair. Pushes Seb to the floor. “We are. But we’re doing what you said. You don’t get to come unless I say so. You’re going to please me. Your pretty mouth, your pretty cock, all of that. For me to play with. My toy.”  
  
Sebastian trembles, kneeling at his feet. Desire floods the room like enchantment: silvered rainbows of city lights and stars, pale aureate lamplight here in their apartment, a rhythm of call and response.  
  
Call and response; and it’s only a complete song with both parts. Chris gentles his grip, half unconsciously. Pets acorn-silk hair, ribboning it through fingers. He’s not concerned about what they’re about to do; this is private, secret, for them. He’s not concerned about his own body, or not precisely; they’re both inexperienced as far as the specifics of Seb fucking him, but as a responsible Dom he _has_ experimented with a few toys, checking sensation and intensity, before putting them on or inside Sebastian. And part of that years-ago training—which Seb’s never properly had despite some recent studies with Scott, and they’ll have to work on that more—had included hands-on study of anatomy, mapping out places of pleasure and pain. He’s pretty sure he can talk them through this.  
  
And he loves that too. That compromise, the one they’ve found together. Exploration, experimentation, and the absolute night-dark joy of making those explorations _with_ Sebastian.  
  
“Come,” he orders quietly, “bed,” and Sebastian comes with him, at his side, unleashed and compliant, brushing up against him on occasion as they move; and settles onto knees by the side of the bed when Chris sits down. His face is lovely in the glow of the single lamp: artwork washed in topaz and tourmaline, gilded shadows, cheerful lips.  
  
Chris tilts an eyebrow at him. “Strip. Then me. Don’t worry about being neat or anything.”  
  
Sebastian looks a little like he wants to laugh, but leans forward and kisses Chris’s jeans-clad knee. His breath’s warm through denim, before he sits back up and pulls his shirt off over his head, then hops up to wriggle hips out of slim-fit pants and underwear. His hair fluffs up, wanting to play too. His fingers are long and slightly clumsy and loving when they touch Chris’s sweater, sliding over biceps: the awkwardness of a musician, a bird in flight, a sleek powerful panther-kitten who’s never been asked to undress another person before.  
  
Sebastian’s tried a few times. As a good submissive, he should in theory be able to perform whatever tasks his Dominant requires, from bed-service to valet-service. This, however, is one of those odd blind spots, the areas Seb’s had zero experience in: not a frenzied pulse-pounding leather-clad club nor a skittish but hopeful wedding-night.   
  
Sebastian pauses, standing in only that storm-grey collar before him, fingers lying over Chris’s undone belt-buckle, well-worn pop of primary red like love. Then puts a hand up and puts fingers under Chris’s chin and tilts Chris’s face up and kisses him, curiously. It’s not a shy kiss. Unpracticed at being in charge, but that’s not the same as being hesitant about it, and Sebastian’s not hesitating here.  
  
Chris lets his eyes slip shut. Parts his lips while Sebastian’s hand cups his cheek, while Sebastian’s tongue dips interestedly into his mouth, asking, penetrating. Chris shivers, shirtless and spellbound.  
  
When his husband pulls back they gaze at each other for a second. Sebastian blushes but doesn’t flinch. “You liked that. Sir.”  
  
“Oh fuck yeah,” Chris breathes, presence on his mouth, his skin. Even his beard tingles, caught by light. “Um, I’m…gonna…order you to kiss me more. Please?”  
  
Sebastian does laugh this time, bright and hushed and wondering. His eyes sparkle. “I want you naked, then. So I can kiss you _everywhere_.”  
  
“Oh God yes—” He tries to help, hands shoving at his own jeans, hips lifting; Sebastian visibly ponders responses for a second, then puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him flat on the bed and says, “No, you asked me to do it, sir, so you don’t get to move,” and Chris collapses dramatically across the mattress and announces, “I love you,” while his cock throbs and drips a sudden surge of want into the boxers Seb’s patiently figuring out how to take off.  
  
Both of them naked, Sebastian comes to settle next to him, long and slim and strong, unexpected power revealed in shoulders and thighs and heroic defense of their love. Outside wind picks up suddenly, and rattles stray leaves along city alleyways and towers like dice being thrown, like the rustle of fate and fortune. Sebastian’s smile’s a castle-banner, a flag waving in defiance of any challenge; his fingers find Chris’s skin, trail over chest and tattoo-ink and flat stomach. Chris forgets how to breathe, and remembers again, looking at that smile.  
  
Sebastian squirms closer—graceful as a baby colt, especially when flopping back down half atop Chris, but they’re not laughing right now, or only a small grin—and kisses him again. Deeper this time. Sure and pure and thrumming like the racing pulse at the center of the world. A universe here in this bed. Being reborn.  
  
Chris whispers “Kiss me, Sebastian” because he’s swept up in scorching sweetness but he’s damn well going to make sure his submissive has anchors built of words and command amid the flame; Seb nods and then bumps his nose into Chris’s and leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Sebastian’s heart’s beating fast, Chris notices while resting a hand over his throat, over his collar. Breathing fast too, though not uneven.  
  
Sebastian kisses him. Sebastian kisses him everywhere, to the song of the wind and the glow of lamplight. Lips wander along Chris’s neck and leave tendrils of blooming gold in his veins. That mouth presses imprints into his collarbone and draws clamoring tipsiness up through his skin, leaving him lightheaded. Kisses blossom over his stomach, his hip, the line leading to his cock, which twitches and jerks.  
  
Sebastian sits up, a question in those eyes. Chris pants, “Not yet, you can do more, what do you want to do with me?” Sebastian blinks, a ruffled round-eyed baby owl confronted with possibilities, but then slides a hand all along Chris’s right arm, shoulder to bicep; Chris willingly lets him stretch the arm overhead, lifting the other one to meet it. “You want me to stay put?”  
  
Seb considers this, shrugs with eyebrows and a quirk of that mouth, then clarifies, “I wanted to know how it felt. Seeing you holding still for me…hands on the headboard…but I like you touching me. What else—what do you like? I have a few ideas, but they mostly involve what you like doing to and with me, and that’s not…”  
  
“Nope. Your turn. You’re doing all the work.”  
  
Sebastian actually makes a semi-annoyed face at him, and Chris is about to jump back in and issue an order or two to start, but then fingers venture up and find his right nipple. He gasps; his husband watches his face. “This is…good, for you, sir?”  
  
“Yeah.” His nipples aren’t as sensitive as Sebastian’s—Seb’s are as deliciously responsive as the rest of him, and Chris loves seeing them stiff and red and aching with pleasure and pain, making his submissive sob and squirm and beg frantically for more—but they do like some consideration, and Sebastian’s clearly paid attention to what Chris does to him. Fingertips test and tease and pinch lightly, gathering tender flesh; Chris lets out a ragged breath. “Not quite that hard…but more…yeah, okay, good…”  
  
Seb watches his face. Listens to instructions. Bends down and laps at the closest nipple with a delicate exploratory kitten-tongue; does it again, tasting. Chris groans.   
  
“I like this.” A hint of amusement colors that tone, surprised but excited shooting stars in the night. “Pleasing you. What else can I do?”  
  
“If you do much more you’re gonna kill me—”  
  
Sebastian slides lower and licks his cock. Chris loses words.  
  
This they _have_ done before, though not the same way. He loves the hot wet skill of Sebastian’s mouth, whether being put to active use drawing out his orgasm or becoming soft and pliant for Chris to fuck into or simply waiting, blissful and serene, warming Chris’s cock. And right now Sebastian put his hands above his head and promised to do all the work. Right now Sebastian’s taking the lead, licking and sucking and finding his own rhythm without Chris’s hand in his hair.   
  
He’s both slower and more reckless than Chris is, as far as controlling the pace; Chris observes this fact through a haze of lust. Seb starts more carefully, not shoving his mouth down on Chris’s cock and choking prettily while held in place, but patiently getting himself used to length and stiffness and only then diving down all the way, root to tip, taking the entire heft down his throat over and over, more than Chris would’ve asked.  
  
Chris’s entire body wants to open up, to thrust deeper, to yield; his nerves are singing like the wind.  
  
Sebastian stops to lick his lips. To nuzzle a kiss into the inside of Chris’s thigh. That spot sings too.  
                                                                                                                                     
“God,” Chris manages, dizzy with need. “That—yeah, okay, that’s good, you’re so good—” And Sebastian flushes pink at the praise, happy.   
  
“Come here,” Chris says this time, and his husband comes eagerly, a paradox of shining eyes and strength and readiness to please. Chris needs to cuddle him for a minute, and also to interrupt the moment, which might’ve not lasted much longer. “I said we were…we were gonna try something. You don’t get to come until I’m done with you, I said.”  
  
Sebastian raises eyebrows at him. “I thought I was listening, Chris.”  
  
“You are. So well.” With a kiss to the closest pert eyebrow. Sebastian’s been very well behaved: not touching his own body, ignoring his crinkled nipples and upright dripping cock in favor of lavishing attention on his Dominant. “But I kinda want to enforce that. Still in charge, sub.”  
  
“Yes, Chris.”  
  
“And you like sensation.”  
  
“Very much.” Sebastian’s eyes get even more huge after Chris fishes the toy in question out of the drawer. “Oh…that’s unfair.”  
  
He hesitates, leather swinging from one hand. “That a no?”  
  
“No. I mean no, it isn’t. It’ll hurt a little…”  
  
“But you like that,” Chris finishes, hand cupping his cheek, thumb finding the arch of a cheekbone, “too.”  
  
And Sebastian gives him a smile. It lights up eternity. “Yes.”  
  
Chris pushes him to his back, takes his flushed stiff cock in hand, fondles vulnerable balls. Sebastian whimpers. He loves this, Chris knows: being held, being played with, being made to feel as if he’s Chris’s completely, at his Dominant’s mercy. Intensity.   
  
This cock ring isn’t one of the cruelest, but not the easiest, either. Adjustable. Designed to separate and squeeze; designed for pleasure and pain, balls and shaft. Sebastian’s lips part, silent. His eyes get a little wet, but he doesn’t protest.  
  
“Good boy,” Chris tells him, giving his bound cock one final pat, “good little sub, so sweet, doing everything I ask,” and Seb’s eyelashes flutter down and up. He likes a hint of pain; he gets off on sensation, Chris knows. This one’ll hurt more than a hint, enough that coming will be difficult, though not impossible, given that.  
  
“Come back here,” Chris says. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to use that pretty cock on me. In me. I want you to hold me down. Show me what you can do with those muscles. What you learned from stunt guys. Show me, sub.”  
  
Sebastian shivers at the words, lets his gaze drift toward a voiceless pillow, nods. Touches the collar around his neck, a quick speaking gesture.  
  
“I’m telling you to,” Chris says. “I’m telling you what to do. I love you.”  
  
Sebastian looks up from the pillow, grins brightly, and pounces.  
  
Chris ends up on his back amid scattered bedding. Sebastian’s pillow-conspirator falls onto his face. He tosses it aside. “You—”  
  
Seb’s mouth lands back on his cock. In earnest now. Demanding. Forceful pulls that threaten to bring up Chris’s climax like a rising inexorable tide, a coil of steel-blue heat. He’s panting, watching that dark head move between his thighs.   
  
Sebastian kisses him there too, sticky-sweet over the tip of his cock, and the heavy twin weights beneath. Chris releases a shaky sigh and reaches down to stroke his submissive’s hair, to lay a hand over that collar. Sebastian mouths at him, sucks at his shaft and balls, with Chris’s hand lying at the nape of his neck.  
  
Sebastian’s mouth travels lower, experimental: one small lick at the spot behind his balls, tasting, testing, pausing. He looks up; Chris moves the hand readily. Pale winter-magician eyes seem unsure.  
  
“You can,” Chris says encouragingly, “but you don’t have to. Actually, um, no, not this time.” Which causes dismay among the midwinter magicians; Chris mentally swears at himself, through the fog of desire. “I just mean. Not that I don’t want you to try. Next time. I mean right now I want you inside me. The plan. Your cock. In me. I want. Oh fuck.”  
  
By the end of his babbling his submissive’s looking happier again. Thank God; he isn’t sure any more words would’ve helped. He absolutely wants Seb’s luscious mouth and skillful tongue on him, inside him, licking him open; he’s also aware that his husband doesn’t have much experience with that act at all, either the giving or receiving ends, and they’re already pushing past so many boundaries tonight.  
  
Next time, though. Or the time after. Hell yes.  
  
“Orders,” he summons up. “I want you to fuck me. You need to get me ready for that. You know how, you’ve done it to yourself when I ask, you can do this, baby.”  
  
Sebastian’s shoulders project mild uncertainty about this assertion, but also determination and love and a whole host of other emotions Chris can only guess at and hope to be worthy of. “Yes, Chris.”  
  
“You, um, you know you need to find our lube, right?”  
  
“Yes, Chris,” Sebastian says, managing to inflect this outwardly meek response with enough sarcasm to level a forest, and then bends down to lightly bite at Chris’s hip. “I have successfully discovered the secret hidden temple of lube before, sir.”  
  
“You’re my favorite lube archaeologist,” Chris confirms, and smacks him contentedly on the ass as he leans over to open the drawer. “Love you.”  
  
“I love you. Always.” Sebastian sits back up. The scents of cool vanilla and warm spice suffuse the air; Sebastian’s picked the one reminiscent of their wedding-night, gentleness with secret tingling at the core. This one’s minus the aphrodisiacs, though. “Legs apart, then. Further than that.”  
  
Chris flips onto his stomach—it’ll be easier—and spreads them promptly.   
  
Sebastian settles between his thighs, trails a finger down the cleft of his ass. Hesitates. A different kind of hesitation.  
  
Chris twists around, up on elbows. “What’s wrong, sub?”  
  
“I…don’t want to hurt you.” Sebastian sighs. “I’ve never—yes, I’ve opened myself up for you, but—you’re not me and I’ve never—”  
  
“It’s okay,” Chris says, bumping him with a foot. “It’s _okay_. I _want_ you to. I’m _ordering_ you to. And I’ll tell you what feels good, or if something doesn’t feel good, and you’ll listen, got it?”  
  
“And I thought I was the scandalous one,” Sebastian mutters, but without really arguing, so that’s all right. His fingers slip between the curves of Chris’s backside again, skin-warm and slick with lube. “The things you ask of me, sir, honestly…”  
  
“Indecent?” Chris suggests hopefully. “Wicked? Filthy? Naughty? You have a thing for bad boys?”  
  
“As if you ever could be.” Seb presses a finger against him, over the rim of his hole. Chris, on his stomach, can’t see; this realization makes his gut clench pleasantly. “You’re the nicest person I know, sir. You bring me Starbucks just to make me smile. You hold my hand and tell me we don’t have to do anything I’m not comfortable trying. On our wedding-night, I was so scared, and you were so kind.” The finger nudges forward. Pushing in. Just a fraction, but it’s Sebastian’s finger inside him. Chris has never felt so light, so tender, so full and yet needing more.  
  
“I don’t have a thing for bad boys,” Sebastian murmurs. “I have a…thing…for you. That kindness. Wanting to be yours. Wanting to make you happy. Wanting to please you. I do like this, making you feel good…”  
  
That single finger glides in more, eased by lube, no real resistance. Chris groans, spread out on their bed under Sebastian’s hands. It’s that first night over again, and yet not: galaxy-blue sheets instead of traditional white, science-fiction paperbacks and Seb’s steadying hand on his hip instead of impersonal pale walls and silent bedposts…  
  
He whispers, remembering his role, “More. Slow, but more.”  
  
He _has_ done some experimentation, his fingers and those toys, testing; he doesn’t do it often, and he’s never had another actual person inside him, but he knows what he can take. He knows that bright spot exists; he wants Seb to touch him, to plunge into him, to find it. To complete him.  
  
A second finger joins the first, long and slim and piano-practiced; Seb listens to instructions, listens when Chris tells him faster or slower or up a little, different angle—  
  
And oh there it is, that electric bundle of sparks that whites out his vision and makes his toes curl—  
  
“There,” he’s panting, breathless, “that—” and Sebastian does it again, fingers working inside him, taking him apart with pleasure until he can’t see straight and his body’s shuddering into the mattress. “Wait, hang on—stop, stop for a sec—”  
  
Seb freezes. Instantly.  
  
“No, you’re good, you’re—wonderful—” Blinking sweat out of his eyes. Hauling himself back from the edge. “Too good—I want to come with you fucking _in_ me—”  
  
“Yes.” Sebastian breathes the syllable like the answer to divine revelation. “Yes.”  
  
“I want to see you.”  
  
Sebastian helps him roll to his back, which he hadn’t expected but instantly adores: that strength guiding him, wrapped around him. His thigh hits Seb’s bound cock; Seb gasps. They say “Sorry—” simultaneously; Chris says, “Shh,” and pets his hip. “Hurting?”  
  
“Yes, but…not bad. I want to…” Sebastian nibbles at his lower lip, lets it go. “What you said. Being a—a toy for you to use. My cock. I like that idea.”  
  
“Me too. Keeping you hard, keeping you ready, whenever I feel like gettin’ off with you…” He sits up for another kiss, tugs Seb back down atop him. “I want you to fuck me. Use that pretty cock. It’s mine anyway, you’re mine, so be good, sub.”  
  
His husband’s eyes radiate joy. Shared, and doubled for being so. “Yes, Chris.”  
  
It’s not entirely easy yet—Chris is tight from inexperience and Sebastian’s not used to this—and some fumbling happens. Chris tries to relax; Sebastian tries to tease him more, to work fingers inside and stretch, to spill more lube across quivering bodies. Seb doesn’t want to hurt him and keeps stopping; Chris swears out loud and then apologizes desperately. “Okay, I’ve got an idea. You know your pink dildo? The medium one.”  
  
“The one we don’t use as much because you moved me up to the bigger ones and the ones that vibrate and—”  
  
“ _Yes_ that one. Grab it.”  
  
Sebastian does, avoiding his eyes.   
  
“No,” Chris says. “Look at me. Look at me, Sebastian, I’m not upset with you, I swear, you’re not—not doing anything wrong. We just need to open me up a little more, okay? I need you to know that you won’t hurt me. So I want you to try this.”  
  
He knows Seb’s hearing this as _you’re not good enough, you’re not good at this, I’d rather fuck a dildo than you._ He _knows_. He says, as their companion wind whines mournfully around windowpanes and eaves, “You’re wearing my collar. You know what that means, sub?”  
  
“I’m yours,” Sebastian says to Chris’s left knee.  
  
“Mine.” He sits up, grabs the tiny swinging diamond, tugs. “Because I want you. Because you trust me, and I trust you, and I want to do this with you. Even if you haven’t— _we_ haven’t—done this before. We’ll figure it out, and you need to listen when I tell you it’s not your fault, because you do trust me, yeah? So, um, come fuck me with your pink dildo for a minute, watch me when you do, so you know you’re not hurting me, and I swear I’ll tell you if you are, but right now I seriously want to get fucked by _something_ and I want you to do that for me.”  
  
Sebastian looks both shocked and incredibly turned on, centimeters away, diamond tag caught in Chris’s grip.  
  
“Got it?”  
  
His submissive nods, wide-eyed.  
  
“Say yes.”  
  
“Yes, Chris. And…also…I may have to take back my earlier comment. I might like you being naughty. These ideas.”  
  
“Do it, then,” Chris tells him, laughing, loving him; and watches as Sebastian slicks up the rose-colored length with more lube, watches the tiny furrow of concentration between eyebrows at the tentative first nudge, watches the startlement when Chris doesn’t flinch or express pain but asks for more.  
  
He’s not used to feeling quite so full, but he’s not in discomfort either, and he makes sure only pleasure shows on his face. He wants Sebastian to see that. He stares at Seb’s hand guiding the sleek shape as it disappears into him, and he relaxes and pushes back and feels his muscles open up and bloom around it; he hears Seb’s inhale. “Chris—”  
  
“More, sub.”

Sebastian fucks him open with the dildo, under his direction: in and out, deeper and faster, until his hole’s loose and worked over and slippery and clenching around hardness. Sebastian successfully finds his prostate again, and teases him with small quick rubs; the tip’s just enough to reach. Chris squirms and whimpers and rocks hips up into the motion, shameless, knowing Seb’s taking it all in, knowing his submissive’s observing and learning and also fucking him with a pretty pink dildo that’s _been inside Seb’s body before_. He nearly comes on the spot when this thought crosses his mind.  
  
“Okay,” he pants, “okay, stop, I mean—you, I want you in me,” and this time Sebastian fits into him easily, hard hot cock pressing at his entrance; Chris has never done this before and the sensation starts deep within but radiates outward through every atom. Sebastian feels like nothing else. Like the man he loves moving inside him, thick and strong and filling him up in every yearning lonely space.  
  
Sebastian’s arms take his own weight, poised above Chris on their bed. That beloved voice swears softly in Romanian, reverent. Sebastian’s eyes are tremulous and wondering. Leather rubs against Chris’s stretched entrance, another reminder. Sebastian’s his.  
  
“I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck me.”  
  
And Sebastian does, moving inside him, drawing back, thrusting more strongly; finding a rhythm, obeying directions, squeezing eyes shut and crying out in Romanian as Chris clenches around him. He feels so good, so incredible, pounding into Chris’s body over and over—he’s an arch of muscle and sweetness above Chris in bed, heat and rippling strength and that rhythm that doesn’t stop because Chris hasn’t told him to—  
  
Chris has an idea, gasps out details between unguarded moans, gets Seb to roll to his back. Straddles his submissive and sinks down: body opening to take that hard swollen length in all the way, until Seb’s cock ring and leather-wrapped balls rub against his body. Sebastian cries out, frantic, thrusting up; Chris grabs his hands, orders, “My turn, keep them here—” and slams them against the headboard and gets his own on Seb’s so-sensitive nipples and twists.   
  
Sebastian screams, body arching up, impaling him. Chris cries out too, and rocks back against him, riding him, finding his own rhythm now: taking pleasure from Seb’s body, using him, half mindless with ecstasy. He wants this to go on and on; he’d never known he could feel so good, his submissive’s cock buried inside him, his husband quivering and begging and writhing under him, his to play with and command and cherish and adore with his entire heart and body and soul.  
  
Sebastian’s temples are wet, hair damp with sweat; he’s wet everyplace, chest heaving, hips pumping into Chris’s body because Chris hasn’t told him to stop. His eyes are wet too; Chris has been rough on his poor reddened nipples, and even one more brush to the right one makes him sob. He hasn’t moved his hands. Fingers obediently splayed on the headboard, between the solid posts they sometimes use for restraints. Arms tense.  
  
“So good,” Chris whispers, Chris tells him, “so fucking good, for me, and you feel so good inside me, I love you, do you want to come?”  
  
Sebastian whimpers blindly, and Chris rolls hips leisurely, sending frissons of euphoria through them both. “Asked you a question, sub.”  
  
“ _Te rog_ …yes…yes, please…” Sebastian keeps trying to behave, to be good, to thrust upward under him. He’s a delectable instrument of enjoyment for them both. “Please, sir.”  
  
“After you make me come, maybe you can. If you can earn it, you can come inside me.”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth, pink where he’s been biting his lip, falls open. Nearly blasphemous, that suggestion; more than scandalous, and more than shocking. Submissives didn’t fuck Dominants, didn’t fill Dominants with their climax; but Chris wants that, wants Sebastian dripping out of him, leaving him aching and claimed and taken, and the dark heady thrill spirals through him.  
  
He wants to come with his husband’s cock buried in his ass. He wants Sebastian to come that way, inside him. He wants to do this, to give this—something he’s done with no one else, given to no one else—to Sebastian.  
  
He thinks that Sebastian wants this too. He knows that amazement’s penetrated the blissful haze of denial and submission and use; he knows this is himself as a Dominant asking for a level of trust beyond the ordinary, beyond even the extraordinary. He knows Sebastian’s always tried so hard to be good.  
  
He feels the shudder of want below him, passing over Sebastian’s body. He knows Sebastian now. He knows desire in that body, in those glorious eyes.  
  
Sebastian wants this very badly. Perfect: Chris does too.  
  
“On top of me,” he demands, “I want to feel you,” and they flip back over and Seb lands atop him, solid tangible weight, beauty and power and hidden depths that peek out for Chris to see, new secrets to discover over and over. Explorations and treasures and the heat of Seb’s breath on his cheek, the clumsy graze of lips over lips and chin and throat as they lose rhythm and find it again, as Chris tells him more and faster and harder and _there_ —  
  
The peak’s a rolling wave more than a shattering: like a deep swell of liquid diamonds, like the diamond at Sebastian’s throat, like light billowing through abruptly weightless bones. It lifts him up and carries him away in boundless ripples, a dissolving, a suspension of self and thought. Sebastian, as ordered, fucks him through it without stopping; one strong hand slips under Chris’s head, cradling him even as they both quake with it, as Chris gazes up at his submissive, full to the brim with love.  
  
Sebastian’s other arm’s shaking, he realizes vaguely. Holding weight balanced above him; watching Chris’s face with heartbreaking intent, memorizing every breath, each fluttering eyelash. Sebastian’s remained rock-hard and unrelieved inside him, complying with command even while Chris came and came apart around him.   
  
He reaches down. Fumbles with sex-drowsy fingers. The night’s hot and slick as autumn wine, delicious and burning and drunken with sensation. He finds leather and confining snaps, and tugs, and orders, “You can, you earned it, I want to feel you, come in me—”  
  
Sebastian goes stiff against him, atop him; he holds Chris’s gaze as his climax spills from him, as ordered, surrendered, given and rejoiced in. Chris can _feel_ him coming; it’s like nothing else, splendid pulses inside him, inundating his sparkling nerves; he tightens involuntarily and Seb gives a tiny cry and jerks against him. Pleasure and pain, Chris thinks fuzzily, and gets a hand around that throat, over that collar, whispering, “So good, sub, you feel so good, my good boy.”  
  
Sebastian quivers and twitches and comes again, or maybe another small wave, a final echo, and then collapses on him, exhales not quite steady and damp against Chris’s neck.  
  
“I love you,” Chris breathes, not quite steady himself. “I love you.”  
  
They hold each other, naked and sticky and sated, a secret kept by their bedroom and the gusty night.   
  
After his heart-rate slows, after he’s remembered he’s not made of rainbows and he hasn’t really done this before and he might be kind of tired, he coaxes, “Seb?”  
  
Sebastian sticks his face further into Chris’s neck. “Mmm. Sleeping, Chris.”  
  
“You’re adorable. And kinda heavy—no, I didn’t mean get up yet, just scoot over.” He rubs Seb’s back; his submissive sighs and settles back down, not saying anything, but it’s a pensive sort of quiet, not upset or distressed. Chris can feel his own body loose and slick and clenching around nothing in a satisfied empty way. He likes that feeling.   
  
He shuts his eyes, opens them, regards their cool blank bedroom ceiling without focusing much. He’s still comprehending the magnitude of what they’ve just done, and he isn’t sure he wants to do it all the time, or even most of the time—for one, he absolutely loves their usual dynamic, he gets excited by Sebastian’s sweetly genuine submission, and he knows Seb does too; for another, he knows what consequences might arise if even a hint of this irregularity becomes public. But he could do this again. More than once again.  
  
Oh _hell_ yes he could do this again.  
  
“Chris?” Sebastian’s voice comes small but clear, tiptoeing over his collarbone.  
  
“Thought you were sleeping.” He kisses the top of his submissive’s head. “I kinda asked you for a lot. Wore you out—oh shit are you okay? Did you—did I—” Flailing. No handholds. Are you okay physically? Emotionally? You who’d never thought of this before, who did this for me?  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian says again, a loving interruption, and lifts his head. His eyelashes are wet, but the winter-fairies dance over lakes in that pale gaze. “No, I’m…no, never mind, I don’t know what I am. Tired. Happy. Thoroughly scandalized by your controversial stance on submissive-Dominant relations. Such disreputable…positions.”   
  
“Um,” Chris says, barely keeping up. “So I hear lube archaeologists like disreputable positions? And indecent, um, angles…of…excavation…help me out here, this is like death by metaphor, save me, _are_ you okay though? Seriously.”  
  
Sebastian finger-walks a hand down to cup Chris’s softening cock. Chris’s cock immediately gets stuck in a halfway state between exhaustion and wanting an instant repeat performance. “Processing. Give me a minute. Speaking of discoveries, did you know you have a freckle right here? Near your—”  
  
“I do? Huh.” He rolls their bodies slightly closer together. “Can you like bench-press me? Just wondering.”  
  
Sebastian takes this ridiculous question more or less seriously, fingers now tapping a classical melody over Chris’s sensitive shaft. “You? Probably not quite. I could flip you, though. Some of those stunt tricks, fight techniques…I’ve kept learning, you know I have, at the gym. If you’re asking whether I could pin you down or bend you over the bed, I possibly could. Are you sore? Hurting anyplace?”  
  
“Would you? Sometime? And…maybe. Kinda. Not bad. I mean I like this, it was awesome, you’re awesome, but if you don’t want to try again, if it’s not what you were looking for, ever…?”  
  
“I thought you might be sore,” Sebastian answers, avoiding the last question, “I was, after our wedding-night. Can I take care of you, Chris?”  
  
“Seb,” Chris says.  
  
“It’s not what I was looking for,” Sebastian says. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t good. If you hadn’t noticed, that’s somewhat of a metaphor for our entire marriage.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“I like you telling me what to do to please you. I might not think of…of me being on top, being more active…on my own, or not often; you might have to ask for what you want, if you want that. But if you ask I’ll say yes. And I’ll mean it.” Sebastian grins, adds, “I like making you come. With my cock.”  
  
“I love your cock.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I still want you on your knees,” Chris says. “I want you on your back and in cuffs and tied up and spread open for me. I want you in my collar and nothing else—”  
  
“Which I currently am—”  
  
“—yeah, thank you, I noticed, want me to put another cock cage on you and leave it on all night, sub?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
“After we shower. —and I want this too. Not most of the time, maybe. But—yeah, sometimes.” Sometimes. When I want to lie on my back looking up at you, feeling you move in me, the way you touch me when you’re looking down at me. When I want to remember the pieces of me I’ve given to only you. Feeling new. “I want everything with you. Isn’t that a proper Dominant thing, anyway? Me wanting all of you?”  
  
“My improper proper Dominant,” Sebastian says, and kisses him: incontrovertible and pure and profound as the night, as the braided strands of lampgleam and windsong and defiance in city bars. His collar’s grey velvet and exertion-damp suede under Chris’s hand; the diamond tag spins gilded light into scattered reflections of fairytales. “And yes. I want everything. With you.”


End file.
